


The Frozen South: An NHL Autobiography

by DylanTheDman



Category: Hockey RPF, Original Work
Genre: Bisexual Characters, Character Development, Lesbian Character, Loss, Matriarchal society, Mentions of Abortion, Milwaukee Admirals, Multi, Nashville Predators, RPF mixed with original work, Saginaw Spirit, Satire, Slow Burn, Subtext, Symbolism, Women in the NHL, hurt and eventual comfort, more like women are the NHL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10959486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DylanTheDman/pseuds/DylanTheDman
Summary: In a women's sport like hockey, men don't tend to last very long.(Edits and revisions ongoing.)





	1. Born: December 1, 1992

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to dedicate this book to the people who changed my life, from start to finish.
> 
> Lykke and Henrik Ahlgren:Thank you for making me who I am.
> 
> Cody Bass: Never gave up on me, even though I deserved it (Saginaw Spirit for life).
> 
> Jolan Dunai: Completed both my game and I.
> 
> Anna Hjalmarsson: The best Captain I've ever had, and the greatest hockey player I know.
> 
> Alexis Hedinberg: The goalie I both idolized as a girl, and played with as a woman.
> 
> Lacy Dunn: The woman who saved me from beatings, probably more then she should have.
> 
> Andre Bellamy:I couldn't have done any of this without you. Keep making history.

At twenty-one, I’d already played three seasons in the National Hockey League, and appeared in the Stanley Cup Final. I’d never made it farther then that; I’d never felt the cold metal in my hands, or watched my team hold it above their heads in jubilation. To an NHL player, there is nothing you want more. It wasn’t the money, the glory, the Bantam medals, or the status. As little girls on the ponds in Canada, Sweden, or Russia, it’s the Cup. All the hours, injuries, goals, and assists are in hopes of someday getting your name on that sacred trophy.

I’d never gotten that honor, but at twenty-one, there was one honor I had. I was engaged to the love of my life.

Jolan Dunai and I had been teammates for five years. Even before I was draft eligible, we played on the Milwaukee Admirals on exceptional player status. She was two years older than me; eighteen when I aged in at sixteen, and had already gone through a trade from the Toronto Marlies. She was European too, Hungarian, but nothing about her was like a hockey player. She struggled with depression and OCD, and nothing our coaches said or did could reach her; so, they put me in her responsibility, to give her someone to take care of.

So much about the AHL was different from the OHL. I’d only spent three months on Saginaw Spirit before the AHL scrambled for me, but the only player who made an impression on me was Cody Bass, a 20 year-old assigned to protect the future first pick. As a male enforcer, Cody had some of the least respect in the sport, but even Brandon Saad (who drafted well) was an after-thought next to Natalie Spooner, Hilary Knight, Jenni Asserholt, and I. They all went on to be Stanley Cup Champions, but Cody was the only person who cared about the team more than the ends. He knew he may never make it out of the O, so he put his heart into every play.

No one was close in Saginaw, and just as I got used to it, I turned sixteen. Milwaukee was the AHL team that got to me first, and suddenly we were living in each other’s pockets. The distance of the O, that I’d gotten used to, was gone. The team was so tight, they barely had to talk; they knew each other so deeply, all they needed was a look. Imagine only talking to one player in junior then going to minor, and everyone is telepathic. Honestly, I was a little lost without Cody, but the Admirals took to me quickly—my scoring made it hard not to.

The only other outsider was Jolan. Over the off-season before, the Marlies had dealt her, because she was dropping off. Looking at her, it was obvious why; she had lost fifteen pounds in two months, and her hair was falling out. She was just as lost, and helpless as I was. She was spiraling, and I’d been “inappropriately close” with a male player; we’d both broken taboos, and were deer in the league’s headlights—we were meant for each other. Management foisting me upon her was probably the best thing to ever happen to me.

Under the shame, Jolan longed to get better; this fact was hard to miss when we lived together. I was honored when she asked for my help; it was a long time coming—longer than she’d known me—that she asked me was enormous. Even at sixteen, with the weight of captaining an AHL team on my shoulders, I knew I wouldn’t fail her.

As the numbers on her scale went back up, Jolan’s points had a mirror effect. Put together, our line was unstoppable. I remember Sylvia McAllister’s voice announcing our starting line even clearer than Linda Bettman’s when I was drafted.

“On left defense, from Budapest, Hungary, Jolan Dunai. On right defense, from Kempele, Finland, Emma Rinne. Right Wing from Madison, Wisconsin, Shirley Walden. Left Wing, from Grand Forks, North Dakota, Danielle-June Tyvek. At Center, from Uppsala, Sweden, Ingrid Ahlgren… And your man between the pipes, from Kempele, Finland, Pekka Rinne.” I doubt anything will dull that voice in my memory.

By the December of my first season, I’d gone from not having much of a sexuality, to my heart pounding whenever I was around Jolan. By the end of it, I was head over heels for her, and, by extension, our team.

By my second season, I was the Admiral’s Captain two years running. Jolan was nineteen, and brought up by Nashville to replace a pregnant player. Jolan being in Nashville finally brought me to see it as a place I was destined to go. It was no longer, ‘maybe Detroit’, ‘maybe Nashville’, ‘maybe Toronto’; it was Nashville or nothing for me.

Nashville deserved that first pick after tanking so hard. They needed the rebuild. Wickenheiser being traded, Ase Lindstrom on longer-term injury, and Bronislava Scherbakova getting old were taking its toll. The team was mostly in the hands of Anna Hjalmarsson (the young Captain), Alexis Hedinberg (a goalie who every Swede grew up idolizing), and Jolan (the best Defense Woman I’d ever played with), but they could only do so much.

I remember, sitting in the crowd, clutching my dad’s hand to my chest, and my heart hammering in my ribs. The yellow pop of Linda Bettman’s pants suit a beacon against the black stage. Behind Bettman, stood three women, Elizabeth Dower, Rita Torellini, and Annie Hammond, owners of the Leafs, Redwings, and Predators respectively. Even though I couldn’t see their faces well, the royal blue tie, the vibrant red dress, and shining golden blouse told me everything I needed to know.

Even though Nashville was likely, the possibility of a pick trade didn’t disappear until I pulled the jersey over my head. I squeezed my dad’s hand to quell my anxiety, until the diamond of my dad’s wedding ring pinched my icy fingers. Linda Bettman must want to kill her first overall, I thought; it was impossible to breath. I bounced my heels in anticipation while on the edge of my seat; Admirals Navy dress rippling like a violent sea. Bettman was drawing out the torture as long as possible, and waiting for absolute silence to begin. That took some time; no draft had been so close and competitive for the first pick in awhile, but it had been long enough for me.

Finally, all the voices hushed, and my dad enveloped my hand in both of his when Linda Bettman leaned close to the microphone. I’d strived so hard to be the best—the best for Nashville—that even the possibility of going anywhere else made me want to shut my eyes, but a feeling deep in my heart told me to keep them wide open.

“Now, with the first pick…” Bettman turned to the hulking board; the entire first round, covered in black. It had been guaranteed my name would be under the first slot, but it was the team that would make or break me.

The stage assistant stretched up on her toes, touched the first slot, flicked the card away, and my breath was gone.

“From the Milwaukee Admirals, of the American Hockey League, Nashville is proud to select: Ingrid Ahlgren.” The rush made me jump to my feet; the welling of joy inside my chest rushed me into my dad’s arms, and squeezed him tight.

On the stage, Annie Hammond presented the Predator’s jersey to me; golden as the sun. My hands trembled so badly, I actually fumbled the jersey, and let out a breath that was supposed to be a laugh while picking it up. I pulled the jersey on, and my smile must have been just as gold, and proud. Mrs. Hammond hugged me, and then we posed for a picture, me pointing one finger for “first”.

I didn’t see Sana Ulmanis get drafted by the Redwings, or Amanda Kessel by the Leafs. Jolan had told me she’d meet me in our press box, and I had to hustle, so she’d be the first person I’d kiss as a Predator. Now that I didn’t need to worry, I needed to find her, and kiss the life out of her. Sparing one last look to my dad, he waved me along, and I was gone like a shot.

Media wasn’t allowed in the team’s boxes, and I was lucky I moved so fast, but when I burst in, I thought I barged into the wrong room. All I could see were three pairs of surprised eyes turned on me, and the door I’d banged open. Sitting in sleek armchairs was a mousy, crystal eyes woman, a blonde with a booted foot, and an ethereally beautiful, wavy-haired woman.

“That was quick!” the otherworldly woman smiled while standing. I was still frozen in the door—Jolan wasn’t there; I must have barged in on the Montreal Canadiens, but didn’t know how to say “whoops, you’re not Nashville,” without being awkward.

Once this stunning woman stood before me, she towered over me—at least six-foot-six on her heels—and I couldn’t breath again. Those silver eyes, that mahogany mane, those mile-long limbs, and that smile fit for a Morin finalist. I’d know that physique anywhere. Every Swede grew up wanting to be Alexis Hedinberg, and I almost didn’t recognize her. I fully intended to apologize too, but instead I said: “Is Jolan here?”

Anyone else would have been insulted, but Alexis laughed fondly, and patted my shoulder. “Jolan went looking for you,” she answered, “She’ll be back any minute, let’s surprise her,” she continued lightheartedly.

I let Alexis draw me in, and shut the door, closing me in with the others. The other two faces hardly stuck in my mind, but when Alexis sat me down, it clicked. The boot should have been a dead give-away, Ase Lindstrom. A woman known for her footwork, sporting a broken foot. Lastly, the Captain herself, Anna Hjalmarsson, with the crystal eyes.

“Anna Hjalmarsson.” My Captain leaned forward to shake my hand, rustling the marigold fabric of her long dress. I took her hand, and we looked at each other for a long moment; the Predators needed me. They needed the fresh explosive talent I had to get closer to the Cup; Anna knew it, Alexis knew it, Ase knew it. I was mistaken to do it all for Jolan; it was always for the Cup. They had blown their season to get me—numerous great players had tried their best to do their worst, for me.

Anna’s eyes read, “Do not make me regret this.”

I would have responded, if I didn’t hear the door’s latch pop open.

“The media must have swallowed her whole.” Much like when Nashville called my name, I surged to my feet. Jolan was facing the door, closing it carefully. She hadn’t seen me yet. With my heart in my throat, I waited for her to turn.

“This would be so much easier if she’d gone second,” Jolan sighed, and stopped. We’d always been able to feel each other.

In the next second, I was home in her arms.

“They took you! They took you! They really took you!” Jolan squeezed me until my ribs hurt, and I wanted her to squeeze me tighter. She buried her face in my hair, letting her words slowly soften, and steep with tears.

“You’re here,” she sighed, “When I couldn’t find, I thought Torellini kidnapped you.” That made me laugh into her shoulder, and nuzzle deeper. Too bad if I was tear-staining her NHL contract money, sunshine silk dress; I wouldn’t have to part with her again. The woman I loved; her effortless humor, getting to watch her heal herself everyday, getting stronger together, helping our team win together. We could start a family in Nashville when I was older, and proved I wasn’t a bust. The season I’d spent without Jolan was the longest of my life. I grinded away, captained the Admirals to the Calder Cup Final, and played my heart out without her, to be with her.

We were both NHL now—both Nashville now—and there was no more worry; I was queen of the world.

I surged up on my toes, and kissed Jolan like all of this depended on it. We were two misfits meant to be Predators.

 

My first hit at the NHL level changed my life. Not many women can say theit first hit was a blinding shoulder to the chest by Angela Ruggiero, but she hit me so hard on open ice that I felt it in my teeth. It was so powerful that I couldn’t tell when I’d left my feet, and ended up on my back, staring at the rafters of the TD Garden.

I was only eighteen, one of the most highly sought after first-picks of the decade, playing my first NHL game, and here I was—laid out by a modern legend. It was the best first hit I could have asked for. The glory of it kept me on my back more than the pain.

The TD Garden collectively let out an “Ooh!”, and erupted to its feet after the big hit.

-“Ruggiero with the stiff shoulder to the puck-carrying Ahlgren, and—Oh, we’ve got a fight Patty! Dunai is coming in on Ruggiero!”-

Both teams’ response to the hit was instant; everyone grabbed someone, but with amazement in my eyes, I witnessed an explosion of gold as Jolan launched herself on Ruggiero. No preemptive shoving, no posturing; Jolan dove headlong into a blur of fists with a woman two inches taller, and thirty pounds heavier. Jolan bared her teeth while ripping Ruggiero’s helmet off, and throwing as many furious punches as possible.

-“Ruggiero is no stranger to squaring off, at the moment leading Boston in fighting majors, but this will result in Dunai’s first fighting major—Oh! A hard right!”-

Emma hauled me to my feet, and I finally had the thought to scan the ice. Most scuffles had fizzled out, but Shirley still had Brianna Decker by the jersey, when Jolan managed to topple one of league’s legendary tough-girls.

In Ruggiero’s defense, Jolan’s was a lucky shot.

After wrestling Ruggiero’s helmet off, Jolan inadvertently took advantage of having her off balance, and threw a Hail Mary punch that caught Ruggiero on the chin. To this day, I still can’t tell you who was more shocked with the outcome, Jolan, Ruggiero, the Bruins, or the Predators.

-“Ruggiero is down!”-

I don’t think Ruggiero was genuinely hurt either, because she glared at Jolan, eyes wide, but burning with rage from where she sprawled on the ice. I doubt it was glory that kept her there—more like dumbfounding, that she’d been bested by a twig.

Shock petrified Jolan for a moment, before she wisely high-tailed it to the safety of the penalty box. She may have impulsively come to my aid, but she wasn’t suicidal; one wild swing may have worked once, but it would never work twice when it came to Angela Ruggiero. Jolan was in the box before the five minutes was even called. 

“Nashville, number twenty-seven, five minutes for fighting.”

Jolan was not fighter at this time; everyone knew she did it for me.

Anyone would have defended me, but the only woman willing to unquestioning fight for me was Jolan. Ruggiero’s reputation exceeded her, but it didn’t matter who it was—Jolan wouldn’t think twice about stepping in. I scored a short-handed goal (my first NHL goal) to thank her.

“Any words on your fight with Ruggiero?” a reporter asked during first intermission.

“I was just praying she wouldn’t kill me with one punch,” Jolan answered.

In the second period, Ruggiero exacted revenge, by punching Jolan so hard blood vessels in her eye broke. 

“I jinxed it,” Jolan said once the second was over, holding an icepack to her eye.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” I affirmed.

Jolan lowered the pack while turning her face toward me. Her left eye was already swelling; it was purpling down to her cheekbone, and the white was swallowed up by scarlet. Her sky-blue iris popped against the red, but her eyes were gentle.

“If it means protecting you, I’d gladly let Ruggiero do this—“ she pointed to the gruesome bruise “—to both my eyes.”

And that was the moment I decided I was going to marry Jolan someday, when I was established in Nashville.

 

When I was twenty-one, just Jolan and I in our apartment, I figured it was time. If we could make it to the Final, and drop to the LA Queens in oh-twelve, we could take it all as wives in oh-thirteen. With the bravado of winning the Sylvie Eves scoring title that summer, I asked Jolan if she wanted to get married. Three weeks later, we were going to Sweden for that very reason.

The day after the award ceremony, we flew into Stockholm, and took a train to Uppsala.

My father met Jolan for the first time, and called her his daughter. Lykke, my mother, was still in Gothenberg, coaching Frolunda HC to the end of their season, but would stop by for a few days later in July. I only needed my father though, especially if Frolunda needed Lykke.

Jolan and I put in a notice to marry on July second, a day where the sky was such a clear blue that it almost seemed like a too-perfect dream. It was a beautiful day, but nothing could compare to how beautiful Jolan looked. Her rich brown hair stirred in the summer breeze, and she’d let her natural waves come out. She’d worn a sleeveless maroon dress to look nice at the government office. Her skin had just started to tan, and the bronze of her bicep looked perfect as I wrapped my hand around it—the way I’d held her since Milwaukee.

Because we wanted to get our papers as fast as possible—get married as fast as possible—Jolan suggested we turn our phones off to eliminate any distractions. High off the Stanley Cup Final, the Sylvie, and the opportunity to marry the perfect woman, I followed her lead.

This summer would be the best of my life; have a taste of the Cup with a phenomenal team, get married, sign our contract extensions, and start the season hungry. I was the happiest woman in the world—the luckiest too.

Putting in the papers took all of a half-hour; just autographing lines, scribbling dates, and a few extra documents, because Jolan wasn’t a citizen, and we were on our way. Through the hushed lobby, we walked, and swung our joined hands, as happy as if we were already married.

Outside again, the weather had flattened, but our smiles weren’t hampered. The weather couldn’t dim the blue sky in my fiancée’s eyes.

I turned my phone back on to eagerly tell my dad he was one step closer to having another daughter. Instead, I was stunned into fear when my phone immediately began vibrating non-stop.

Seventy-two texts, and counting.

Thirty missed calls and counting.

Twenty-two voice mails, and counting.

It all came in so fast, I couldn’t make out what it was all about, but it made my palms dampen, and my fingers freeze.

Pick up the phone!!! Anna Hjalmarsson…

Oh my god I’m so sorry :( Shirley Walden…

I can’t imagine how you must feel. Pekka Rinne…

These were the only texts I could catch in the constant stream. My heart jumped into my throat, because there were only two reasons why the team would blow up my phone like this.

Either I was traded, or Jolan was traded.

The punch of that realization was infinitely more devastating than any Angela Ruggiero hit, and stopped me in my tracks. Jolan turned to me, brows drawn together in concern.

“What’s wrong? Why are you so pale?” Jolan stepped closer, and laid her hand on my cheek. I fought to say something—make any sound—but all I could muster was to drop my jaw open dumbly. I even hoped that someone died, and it wasn’t a trade, that’s how scared I was to have Jolan taken away; I would have handled a death better.

“Check your phone,” I mumbled after a long, hesitant moment. My phone kept pinging, and pinging, and pinging, but I couldn’t bear to see who was being shipped where. Jolan hastily powered her phone up, and her eyes rounded with the sudden rush of activity.

“Whoa,” she sighed absently, trying to scroll for an answer. I clutched her bicep; how I held her until that very day.

“Oh no,” Jolan whispered, and didn’t even notice my nails digging into her arm.

-“Predator’s acquire D Hilda Olhouser, D Johanna Rask, and 3-rnd pick from Capitals for D Jolan Dunai.”-

When I said my first NHL hit changed my life, I meant it; but I wish I had better foresight. My first NHL hit made me believe a falsehood; Jolan and I were never destined to stay together, and I was foolish for thinking that.

The NHL was a machine, and players were parts that kept it running. No one part was more important or less replaceable. If one part works better elsewhere, it moves. The machine didn’t care if we were in love; the NHL was for hockey, and those who worked hard enough for the honor. Not the glory, the money, scoring titles, or status.

It was for the Cup.

It always had been.


	2. June 26, 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunrise, Florida.

The first draft I attended since I was twenty was the 2015 draft, when I was twenty-three. I went, because Anna said I could go and keep the Alternate Captaincy, or blow it off again and lose it. After being threatened with getting moved off the first line, a hefty fine by my teammates, and/or being made to carry all the team’s gear-bags during the season, the threat to my A was what broke me. I knew I wouldn’t be moved off the top line, I could pay a fine, I’d had enough muscle to deal with the bags, but Coach Hill might listen to Anna about my A. Management was, in fact, fed up with me, and I was tired of hearing about it.

I wasn’t at all excited to go, but I’d been harped on enough, so I sucked it up, and went. I resigned to appear, keep to myself then spend the rest of the summer in Sweden, with my dad. I hadn’t bothered to keep track of our prospects, draft seat, or any of that—I didn’t even know if we had a first-round pick that year, and I didn’t really care, but I’d find out, it seemed.

Anna desperately wanted me to have more of a presence for the team, like I had before Jolan was traded, and I understood that, but I couldn’t make myself care. We were doing too well to have a high pick, and I didn’t see the use in caring about AHL/junior bound girls. I wasn’t about to get attached when I knew I may never see these girls again after draft-day.

The things I did to get people off my back.

In less than an hour, I’d gone from a spotless first-class flight, directly to the BB&T Center in Sunrise, Florida.

I hadn’t been in a VIP box since I was twenty, and this one was a departure from how comparatively nice that one had been. The hall was so dim, and mutedly colored, that I thought the lights were burning out. Leave it to a non-hockey market to treat NHL players like minor leaguers. I didn’t say anything about it though.

The Nashville card on the door saved me from needing to call Anna to come retrieve me, and I entered with little enthusiasm. I shut the door quietly behind me, then regarded my teammates, who were absorbed in observing the first pick.

Most of our leadership core went to the draft, some teams only sent their Captain, but for the first time in a while, all of us attended (willingly or otherwise).

Chaperoning me, there was Anna, Alexis, and Lacy Dunn. Anna, now twenty-nine, had captained the Predators for nine seasons. Alexis, in her thirteenth season, could still practically taste the Morin. 2015 was Lacy’s fourth season as a Predator, but her second as an Alternate. 

I’d gotten into the BB&T five minutes before the festivities started; therefore, got to our box in the middle of the first pick.

“…From the Lake Erie Otters, of the Ontario Hockey League: Connor McDavid.” Linda Bettman announced.

No one had a choice but to know about Connor McDavid. He was the second male player to go first overall—ever, and the NHL really had its hackles up about it. He’d torn it up in the OHL, firmly cemented the first pick, and there were still those with the 1970’s mentality crowing Juliana Marek (the resounding second) was better. Marek had a steady run in the Portland Pirates, but McDavid had proved himself NHL ready by junior. He didn’t even need to crack the AHL (the first male to go first overall, Sidney Crosby, had) in order to prove himself, and it still wasn’t enough. There weren’t any other boys, besides one in the second, until late in the forth. That’s how good McDavid was, and it was never going to be enough.

I was only able to separate my team’s attention when I sighed heavily, removed my slate suit jacket, and cast it over the back of my chair—even then, only Anna noticed.

“You made a good choice,” she looked at me from the corner of her eye. I took my seat between her and Alexis, at the edge where the VIP box opened to the vast arena, over looking the event.

I hummed noncommittally in response, and turned my focus to McDavid fitting the Oilers cap on his head. From the other side of Alexis, Lacy hummed the Canadian anthem, until Alexis stated “oh-six” or the last time Sweden took gold in the Olympics.

“Every other Olympics besides oh-six,” Lacy, a very proud Canadian, countered humorously.

“You three should pay closer attention,” Anna advised. “We’re witnessing history.”

McDavid, leaving the stage, became one of four Edmonton-grown males, after Gretzky, Nugent-Hopkins, and Hall.

“And he’s already better then any of us will ever be,” I added. My three teammates nodded in agreement; none of us had been that dominant at that age, and we also didn’t have everything working against us. If anyone ever deserved to go first, it was Crosby and McDavid.

In all my years of avoiding the draft, I’d forgotten just how tedious it was. We just sat in a tiny, grey room, and did nothing but listen to Linda Bettman get booed, and assign children to each team.

“Arizona… Juliana Marek.”

“Buffalo… Erin Enright.”

“Toronto… Emily Clark.”

“Carolina… Sara Berglund.” 

It passed so slowly, but smoothly, like syrup, that I forgot how long it had been, or what round it was. I tried to occupy myself by rolling up the sleeves of my black dress-shirt, adjusting my suspenders, but eventually resorted to messing with my fingernails. Anything to do anything but stay still.

The remedy to that came as a knock on our door. I would have ignored it, but Alexis was far too social to leave it be.

Her beige dress made quite the clatter with all those crystals on it, but it didn’t hinder her brisk pace toward the door. I left her to it, didn’t turn, and wanted no part of it, but it seemed it didn’t matter what I wanted. Trouble always found me.

“Jolan!” Alexis gasped, and all the blood abruptly left my face.

“Joey!” Lacy spun around to join, but I didn’t know if I could.

“Hey, you mind if I join you guys?” a voice that almost sounded like Jolan’s said, and that broke the paralysis enough for me to half-turn.

It didn’t fully sound like her, or fully look like her either, but when we made eye contact, I knew. There was no way I’d ever un-know. She was so much thicker; her shoulders had become so broad, her quads strained the fabric of her black slacks, and the capri length showcased massive calves. She’d cut her beautiful brown hair off into this little undercut, and died it black. Her face was not longer soft, but sharp, and precise. Her sprinkle of tattoos had turned into sleeves. Even her voice. Her formerly heavy Hungarian accent was nearly dead, and giving in to a little Bostonian twinge.

I’d almost married this current stranger.

Where had my girl gone?

I’m sure she thought the same of me, though. My personality suffered the most after her trade. As a fledgling NHLer, I was the picture of a kid who was simply ecstatic to play. As I approached twenty-one, I grew into a valued player who was honored to be in her position. A lot of that was owed to my happiness from playing with Jolan; being forcibly separated took away most of my rookie wonder. Gone were the days of playing a game, and giggling and smiling on the ice. I’d become as cold as our playing surface, flat, and unreadable. I’d made a one-eighty from the perpetually grinning young center, to a veteran who was never moved to anything—in the matter of an offseason. The trade affected my playing style too. The jubilation of playing with Jolan was dead. The creativity born from our chemistry had given way to a ruthless precision born of spite. In the wake of losing my other half, I’d trained—thousands of hours—until I wasn’t just good. I was dangerous, and everyone knew it.

Everyone accept me. I could never be good enough to settle my self-criticism.

Being happy, and in love had meant nothing. We’d been separated in the name of the Cup; therefore, I strived to be the deadliest player in the game to spite the name of the cup.

Outwardly, the only differences were bigger muscles, longer hair, more tattoos and scars; attitude-wise, I was unrecognizable. It was a shame I’d become so disillusioned, and distant, but I’d lost my spark.

Now, my inner fire was standing in our VIP box, and we were absolutely alien to each other.

“What’s up?” Lacy beamed, excited to see her former best friend, “It’s been too damn long.” She wrapped Jolan up in her strong arms, and held her tight. Lacy made everyone look tiny, but Jolan was so bulky now. Three years ago, Lacy made Jolan look like a twig; not anymore.

“The Caps have a second round pick later—“ Jolan squeezed Lacy back “So, I thought I’d visit while I can.”

Her appearance was still confounding me; I’d been staring, because I didn’t know what to make of her. The fact I was being rude hadn’t yet occurred to me, but when she was able to look at me again, a sudden mountain of shame fell on my head. I hadn’t been strong enough to tell anyone what happened. We’d wanted to surprise the team; the engagement never went public.

After Lacy let go of Jolan, she stepped toward me, her expression level. I shuffled my feet to meet her, too off balance to emote. Somehow, I was surprised she acknowledged me; I was simultaneously hoping she would, and that she wouldn’t. For all I still loved her, I felt it was better to forget our past ever happened.

Maybe Jolan didn’t see it the way I did, or did it because she felt she had to, but she hugged me so familiarly it snuck up on me.

The word hesitate doesn’t do my delay justice; it took me a full five seconds to figure out what was happening, then another three to respond with a solitary palm on her back. It didn’t feel like her.

“Miss you,” she muttered softly—only for me. Because I was honing in on changes, I noticed her smell too, had changed, or maybe it hadn’t. I honestly couldn’t remember what she’d smelled like before; I’d simply graduated to self-destruction.

“You too,” I made myself whisper back. I was aware I sounded forced, but I’d loved Jolan too much to be cold to her, and I had truly missed her. I just had no concept of how to express how I felt anymore.

Jolan pulled back with a hand on my side, and an equally clunky smile; tight-lipped and unsure. I couldn’t blame her for treating me as a totally different person; I was.

There was clattering behind me—Alexis sitting back down with her noisy dress—and a soft rustle—Lacy as well. No one spoke a word.

“The Capitals don’t have a second round pick?” Anna asked, to lift the debilitating awkwardness.

“No, we do,” Jolan answered, “but not until later, so I’ll have to get back to Pavs, Ovi, and Gyo by then.” Soren Pavich, Alex Ovechkin, and Gyongi Szlaby, Washington’s leadership.

It was odd to hear the ease behind the nicknames, and I ignored it by silencing, and sitting back down.

We’d talked through the first three picks of the second round, and turned back in around the fourth. I didn’t catch a name, but it must have been the thirty-fourth, and she was wearing a Leafs jersey, so I got that much.

Lingering behind me, like a ghost, Jolan asked, “Do you guys have a pick?”

Anna hummed in thought then answered “The fifty-fifth seat?” looking across me, at Lacy.

“Yeah,” Lacy nodded, “Don’t ask for a name though.” She shook her head a little. “When I found out we didn’t have a first-rounder, it kind of went over my head.” 

The others settled in again, slipping back into tedium, now with my added discomfort looming behind me. I wouldn't make the mistake of looking back again.

“Ariel Leppala… Columbus.”

“Sophia Kelly… Colorado.”

“Bridgette Barton… Colorado.”

I, on the other hand, couldn’t relax before, and there was no way I could with Jolan hovering around. The room had been small enough; with a fifth person in there it was like I couldn’t stretch a limb without bumping someone, and not anyone I would want to bump. These were all women who were either tired of me, or were the object of the reason for the former, and I couldn’t blame any of them. I needed to get out. 

“I’m going to find the Admirals representatives.” I was already standing, and making a break for the door.

“Cody Bass isn't one of them,” Anna deadpanned, already snatching my arm, and yanking me back to my seat.

So much for getting away.

“Amanda Woitel… New York.” Linda Bettman’s voice was inescapable.

“Makayla Russo… New Jersey.”

“Klara Rinka… Los Angeles.”

It was a wonder the droning didn’t put me to sleep, but it bored me to the point I drifted. Jolan finally stopped hovering when Lacy pulled her onto her lap by her wrist; only then did I drop off.

“Rupi Salo… Dallas.”

“Hannah Greening… Dallas.”

“Cameron Murphy… Buffalo.”

“Gabrielle Norris… Vancouver.”

“Olivia Dahlen… Calgary.”

I jolted from an elbow to my shoulder; startled awake, blinked at Anna, heavy with sleep.

“Our pick is coming up,” she mouthed, and pointed toward the stage.

I sighed and blinked deliberately, to wake myself up.

“Arianna Wagner… Chicago.”

Coming back to life, I sighed deeply, and straightened up in my chair. 

“Nashville... Saginaw Spirit... Andre Bellamy.”

“Oh.” Anna raised her brows in surprised.

In the crowd, a head of warm brown hair rose, neatly combed.

“I forgot there was a boy in the second,” Anna said to herself, finger pressed thoughtfully to her lip.

Having only woke up seconds before, I wasn’t aware enough to grasp what was going on. I followed the brown hair as it shuffled awkwardly to the aisle; something about a boy? Did we draft a boy?

-“TSN: Nashville Drafts First Male Player in Team History”-

Once in the aisle, the neat hair led down to broad shoulders, slim hips, all dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo. He was small for a boy, but still taller and broader then most dress-clad rookies. He trotted up to the stage, like all those before him.

Unable to see clearly from the distance, I got an impression of a sharp jaw, and massive smile. He swiped at his eyes, and shyly accepted the jersey from Annie Hammond. He shook the jersey out, and pulled it on shakily. He was so flustered, he almost left the stage, before Annie smiled, and pulled him back.

The first picture of Nashville’s first drafted male showed him crying tears of joy.

I couldn’t see that from here, the situation still hadn’t sunk in, but I could see the Nashville yellow. We’d drafted a boy, but I’d care when I woke up—maybe.

“I didn’t think management would go for it.” Anna was still stunned. “Not that I’m upset—“ Anna’s own brother played for the Blackhawks at the time, “—I’m just… surprised.”

Here, I passed out for the rest of the draft.

 

I woke up on my own, some unknown amount of time later, to the sound of Alexis’ dress tinkling like champagne glasses.

“I want to meet the rookies,” she declared once standing then blinked at us expectantly. I angled my face up to her, and her awaiting smile told us she was going to get her way; like always. You’d never meet a more spoiled thirty-one year old in your life. The three of us couldn’t simply acquiesce though; we had to put up a little resistance to save face.

“No one said we wanted to meet the rookies,” Anna countered.

“But I said I wanted to meet the rookies.” Alexis insisted, and held a palm to her lace-covered chest, batting her lashes for effect.

It was my turn to pretend we weren’t going to do what she wanted. “But I just woke up,” I deadpanned.

“A walk will wake you up,” Alexis quipped while stuffing her cellphone into my breast pocket. “Hold this for me?” she smiled. It was not a request.

I gave up, and waited for Jolan to say something witty, but she never did. I didn’t know when she left, but she was gone now. I was disappointed that she hadn’t woken me up to say goodbye, but I knew it would have been as painful as her greeting. I told myself that Jolan leaving—and Jolan herself—didn’t matter; she had needed to be with her team by the end of the second.

Speaking of the third, I didn’t know what round it was. As Alexis flourished out of the VIP box, and the rest of us followed, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the BB&T. The stands were draining, and the stage was being cleared.

The draft was over.

I plucked my blazer on the way out, closed the door, and shuffled along at the back of the group. I caught snippets of the conversation between my teammates, and focused on not stepping on Alexis’ trailing skirt.

“I heard Pekka will probably being staying in Milwaukee this season,” Anna said to Alexis.

“Unfortunately,” Alexis sighed, “Samuela Vesa is the name I heard for backup—and she’s good, I can’t deny that—but Pekka and I have worked well together for so long, I don’t see why it shouldn’t stay that way.” Alexis handed Lacy part of her skirt to hold. “Vesa needs more development, and Pekka would easily start anywhere if he were female—“ she shrugged, at a loss, “—But what do I know about goal tending?” she added sarcastically, as close to bitter as she could get.

“How about that boy though?” Lacy interjected positively. “He might even crack the roster.” She whipped her phone out of her slacks excitedly.

“I looked him up, and get this… ‘Bellamy put up three hundred and fifty-four points in a four-season stretch with the Saginaw Spirit, uninterrupted by injuries, scratches, or doubt. He lead Saginaw in points with two hundred and ten assists, and one hundred and forty-four goals, second in points by males only to Connor McDavid (Erie), at four hundred and thirty…’ I mean, this kid sounds like a steal.” Lacy paused, recalling; “You want to know my total after four seasons with the Saskatoon Blades? Like—ninety, one-hundred if I’m flattering myself, and I made the Senators' roster at eighteen.” Lacy gestured to herself with a handful of Alexis’ skirt.

“You had a very different role though,” Anna countered, “You also put up almost four hundred-fifty penalty minutes, was six-four at eighteen, and had the whole league quaking in their skates.” 

“Four hundred and forty-four—but, yeah. I know I was brought on to fight. That should be all the more reason to try him out; he won’t get messed with,” Lacy stated casually, “Not with me around.”

She pocketed her phone once we reached the ‘backstage’ area. Barely more than a closet with a Predator’s plate on the door.

Alexis strolled in without any qualms about it, and Lacy hustled in after so as not to let go of her skirt. Anna went next, and grabbed my elbow to eliminate the flight risk. I could slip away without anyone noticing, if they didn’t physically tether me, but I decided now would be an unwise time to practice that talent.

Before I’d made it over the threshold, someone said “Whoa!” in awe at Alexis. As the rest of us joined, more gasps, and exclamations sounded off from five female voices of varying accent. The girls sat, clustered together comfortably, knowingly or unknowingly excluding the lone boy in Predators yellow. He was outside the group, hair ruffled, and I hadn’t heard his voice. The girls were all bulging eyes, and slack jaws, laughing in shock; the boy picked at his jersey to avoid looking at us. 

His hair was hanging over his eyes, and when he raised his head to push it back, his eyes stayed down. I couldn’t even make out a color.

“Hello, I’m Alexis Hedinberg,” Alexis extended her hand to one girl, a broad-shouldered, dark-skinned girl. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m honored,” she shook Alexis’ hand firmly, “Savannah Moore.”

Alexis went down the line like that. Shaking hands with a Nicole Perry, a Miki Wirtanen, a Janne Soderstrom, and a Samantha White. Anna, and Lacy went along, but I hung back, because the space was already cramped.

Now would have been a perfect chance to escape, I realized, or just get some space in the hall, because everyone was occupied. I was considering doing such, glancing around to make sure no one was looking, when my gaze landed on our boy again. Maybe he’d looked up because I’d been so abrupt, but it made my stomach flip either way. I hadn’t been expecting him to see me.

Black eyes, full of fright, met mine, which must have reflected the sentiment. We’d both caught each other off-guard, and stalled.

Though, as quickly and fearfully as he looked at me, he snapped back to pulling loose threads from his jersey.

The vice inside my stomach unwound, but I found myself not ready to look away. For the first time in years, I was intrigued, and not in a bad way either. I—the typical stoic Scandinavian—was swayed.

My exact antithesis had just looked me in the face. We were perfect opposites: the experienced, icy, and jaded veteran; the hard-fought, insecure, and stranded draftee. For better, or for worse: he had my interest.

Lacy had shared some impressive facts on him, and he was our highest draft pick for a reason. He’d earned his right to be here many times over, but still sat alone.

I knew what it felt like to be an outsider on my own team, and even if it was due to my attitude problem, I didn’t want anyone to feel excluded before they even got a chance to be part of the team. Even though talking wasn’t my thing, I felt my feet shuffling before I could stop them.

I found myself opening my mouth before I could think better of it.

“Do you like Saginaw?” I asked, and got those eyes again, this time with surprise-parted lips.

For a moment, he simply balked at me, seemingly forgetting to breath, and I forgave it. I’d stared in awe at Alexis after my draft, it was my turn to be on the other end. I’d also blurted something dumb while meaning to say something else, so I should have expected, “You’re, like, my favorite player ever.”

It melted my heart, and had me smiling widely too fast to contain; I even giggled—and the space fell deathly silent. The squeaky sound of my own laugh was so Martian that I jumped, and paused, because I didn’t think I could make that high-pitched a sound. Every set of eyes was on me instantly, because everyone knew me, and everyone knew I never laughed. I’d never had a single feeling since I was twenty-one.

Lacy’s mouth was ajar, Anna had stopped mid-sentence, Alexis had paled, and the rookies were frozen. The boy had shrunken back; terrified that he’d drawn attention, and trying to become part of the wall. I was turning to ice too, because I couldn’t do this again. Not after the first time.

I bowed my head, and slipped into the hall with a rushed excuse. I can’t remember what I said.

There was no way I could feel for someone again; not within the sport, and especially not a male.

Losing Jolan all but destroyed me. I was patiently awaiting a trade, but never got the call. All of us could see it coming, but I was too bitter to fight it. I understood why it would happen; no matter how skilled I was, I was aloof, and emotionally unavailable. No amount of goals could cover that.

Being attached to a boy would set me up to do it all over again.

I’d once heard that the average male players splits four and a half seasons with four different teams—those numbers don’t bode well for me. The most likely scenario was that boy—that capable, talented boy—would spend his career in Milwaukee, or get dealt. The league treated boys like hockey cards, trade, trade, trade until you get something more valuable.

If I weren’t traded that July, he would be; I didn’t know if I would survive another trade. I was still upset over something as small as Jolan not saying goodbye before leaving the VIP box.

I could not be ignorantly happy, only to lose it again.


	3. The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where legends go to die, otherwise, no location.

I always knew, when I couldn’t play hockey anymore, I wanted to work in the Hockey Hall of Fame.

The history of our game was so fascinating and complicated to me that I never stopped learning more about it. Back in Saginaw, Cody would chirp me about always being on my computer, scouring records, articles, and photographs. Studying games from the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s. We’d sit next to each other on our bed, and he’d peek over my shoulder, and let me chatter on about hockey’s history, despite calling me a dweeb.

I can’t tell you how much I learned about LA’s Jennie McCurty—AKA: the Great One—nearly 3000 career points doesn’t even scratch the surface. The mass of information about players like McCurty, Sylvie Eves, Federicke Lindberg, Nastiya Romanova, and Betty “Blondie” Walker is deeper than any ocean, but I’d never found myself extremely infatuated with them. Everyone already knew everything about them.

What little girl had never pretended to be Nastiya; scoring a Cup winning goal, after a fifty-goal season in Philly? What hockey fan had never gotten their picture taken with Blondie’s statue outside of the Redwings’ arena? Who had never seen the grainy photo of Sylvie’s iconic blind-goal to win the Cup for the Rangers in 1951? I frequently pretended to be Lindberg when I was little; imagined what it felt like to break records as a Capitals rookie.

After awhile, I found there was nothing else to learn about these Hockey Goddesses that the world didn’t already know.

Before and after I was born, Lykke played for the Redwings; therefore, they were my first hockey team. As one of the Original Six, they firmly held the traditional mindset of hockey—steely girls with lots of grit—that’s why the addition of Pavel Datsyuk in 2001 was so groundbreaking.

Datsyuk was the first man in hockey I was exposed to, when I was nine, and he was otherworldly. I idolized Datsyuk; I was enchanted by his play. His being male was an afterthought to me, but one frown from my mother opened my eyes to it. 

When I was ten, my father and I went to Detroit. It was Lykke’s last season in the pros (getting old at 36), and she’d never provided evidence to her claim of being married, and having a daughter; so, my dad and I were to appear next to her at a Redwings event. I spent the majority of it dominating street hockey with other players’ daughters, by myself. At a break in the game, with our makeshift teams tied, I glimpsed Lykke standing, a stone-y monolith, flanked by Datsyuk. I nearly tripped over my own stick, but I brushed it off. I approached Lykke, her black hair and eyes reflected no light, the opposite of my blonde, and blue, which radiated it. Datsyuk, looking more alike my mother than I did, said of me: “she’s very good.” Lykke, without looking toward Datsyuk: “I expect nothing less,” with a terse, and blank tone, “break the tie,” she nodded me away. Before I could go, I took the opportunity to return the compliment, because Lykke wouldn’t. I told Datsyuk he was my favorite player, and received a grimace from Lykke like I’d embarrassed her.

That was the first and only time I was conscious that it was odd for girls to look up to men, but, somehow, it never deterred me. Greatness never had a gender, but men were a novelty in the NHL, erased, and stepped on. I was surprised when I learned Datsyuk wasn’t alone. There was Jagr, Thornton, Lemieux, Brodeur, and more, that I’d never even heard of. 

This is where the thirst for history arose. I didn’t understand how I could have possibly overlooked a whole demographic of players; so, I set out to know everything I could.

I hadn’t known men played before the 80’s, and was floored to discover just how far back it went.

The first man to play in the NHL was Georges Vezina, in 1910. He was a goaltender, succeed his legendary wife, Marie-Adelaide-Stella Morin, who tended goal for the Montreal Canadiens, and eventually had a trophy named after her. Morin was the Canadiens’ ace, and any team with an elite goalie will do anything to keep her happy; so, when Morin decided she wanted her husband as her backup, management made it happen. In December of 1910, the first man to ever play professional hockey made his debut, would allow the fewest goals in the league, bench his own wife, and be laughed at for the next century.

The NHL didn’t exist when Vezina made his debut, and wouldn’t until he had already played seven seasons, long out-lasting his wife. Once the Canadiens joined the league, Vezina continued being a brick wall, allowing the fewest goals, recorded the NHL’s first shutout, and was the first goalie to put up an assist (to a goal by Hall-of-Famer Midge Lapierre). In 1919, Vezina carried the Canadiens to the Stanley Cup Finals, only to have it canceled due to the Spanish Flu. In the 1919-1920 and 1920-1921 seasons, they would not qualify. In 1922-1923, they would fall to the Senators, and Vezina was nearly run out of Canada. Morin, who in seven seasons had not won a title, had been heralded as a Goddess, and there was her husband, not only dodging pucks, but debris thrown onto the ice.

Vezina was blamed entirely for the five-season final drought, and given no credit when he shutout the Calgary Tigers both in game, and series. No matter how much the NHL tried to discredit him, Vezina’s name is etched into the Cup, and it makes him forever immortal. The first man in professional hockey, and the first man to win the Stanley Cup. 

At the beginning of 1924-25 season, Vezina’s fifteenth, he was dying. Suffering from tuberculosis, Vezina valiantly took to the ice with a 102-degree fever, and 35 pounds underweight. It is unknown for certain if Vezina knew his death was imminent; teammate Fleur Girard later claimed he had full knowledge, but refused to give the NHL, and fans another reason to boo. Withering, Vezina persevered through the first period, and allowed no goals. Between the first, and second, forward Rosie Bahn attested Vezina vomited red, but refused to leave the game. During the second, Vezina collapsed in the crease; he was relieved by Emilia Dionne, and taken to hospital.

On his last trip to the Canadiens’ dressing room, Vezina sat with tears rolling down his face, and asked only for Dionne to give him his sweater. All the man (who had been laughed off by the city he played for) wanted, was his sweater. He harbored no resentment, he didn’t use his last days to curse the fans that ignored records he set, or the management who did the same, but to show gratitude to his teammates. He wanted the physical memory of the history he made, not to scorn those who tried to discourage him. 

Vezina died on March 27, 1926, at age 39, the first male to play professional hockey.

The NHL honored his memory by burying it with him, but they couldn’t scratch it out of the coveted silver trophy.

The next man in the league was Maurice Richard, also a Canadien, and also through family ties. The three Richard sisters all played in the NHL, and one, Georgette, persuaded management to give Maurice a chance. Good on them too.

While showing potential, and having been attested as outstanding by his sisters, Maurice was swiftly assigned to Montreal’s developmental team, in 1940. It was in Richard’s first game that Micheline Lapierrere (by all accounts, the first goon) drove Richard into the boards, breaking his ankle. This would keep Richard out for the remainder of 1940-1941. In 1941-1942, Richard played 31 games in the minors, before getting tangled with Agnes Simone and tumbling into the net, breaking Richard’s wrist, and Simone’s nose. Simone didn’t miss a game, but Richard wasn’t allowed to return until playoffs. 

Many argued the only reason Maurice Richard was able to step on Canadien’s ice was losing their girls to World War II, the bleak record that ensued, and a small number of Quebecois players, but I hope it was more than that. Richard’s career would have spoken for itself, if the NHL hadn’t talked over it.

On November 8, 1942, the first man to score an NHL goal slipped it, undeniably, passed the Rangers’ Millie Brewster.

Unfortunately, injury struck again, and ended Richard’s season after only 16 games; a broken leg, that even I could never dig up the cause of. Afterward, the world of hockey—predictably—concluded that Richard, and men as a whole, were too clunky to handle themselves in the NHL. A newspaper of the time (that I went so far as to have a French-speaking teammate translate) claimed “No man of large frame, or adult age, can possibly sustain the level of intricacy and deftness common to the women of the National Hockey League. The small, light frames of women are too elusive and fleeting for men to safely navigate with and between… [Richard] is putting himself and others in danger by throwing himself around the ice with little regard to the nuances of the game.” 

To add fuel to the doubter’s fire, upon x-rays, it was discovered that Richard’s broken leg had not been cared for properly, and was thusly deformed. Although, much like the stubbornness that lead Vezina to death, the humiliation of being rejected by his own home caused Richard to intensify his training, which he did without a single word to the team, or management. On the first day of Montreal’s 1943-1944 training camp, Maurice Richard returned fully healthy, and with a skating pattern altered to accommodate his deformed leg. 

Maurice Richard was a force that led the Canadiens with 32 goals (1943-1944), and was third best in overall points—injury free. Much like Vezina to his wife, Richard overshadowed his sisters in the numbers, but the NHL never let anyone remember it.

The criticism never stopped, despite numbers of the time proving Richard as one of the best, his line-mates got all the attention. The famous duo of Jeanne Carrier, and Florence Rheum was pasted over Richard’s contributions, though the entire line was an unstoppable trio throughout the 1940’s.

Richard carried the Canadiens to their first Stanley Cup in 13 seasons; lead the league with 12 playoffs goals, and even tallied five goals against Toronto in the semis. This tied Peachy Bouchard’s record of three, but Richard was not mentioned as a star of the game. This went on for 18 seasons, and seven more Stanley Cups.

Richard broke records in 1944-1945, when he tallied eight points (five goals, and three assists) against Detroit; a points record previously held by three women, of seven. The record stood for 32 years (until the arrival of McCurty and Gretzky). No woman in the league was scoring like Richard, but I had to wade through archives to find that. His scoring led him to break Irene Malone’s record of 44 goals in a 50-game season, and then pushed the bar higher.

As Richard neared the mythical 50 goals, things turned violent in hopes of impeding, or injuring him. Richard had to shake off slashes, hooks, trips, slough-foots, and even women jumping on his back. These interferences hampered Richard’s numbers for eight games, but no one in the NHL could stop him from reaching 50 in 50. It was one of the most incredible achievements that I’d never heard of, and I added it to my list of them.

As was to be expected, critics harped that Richard’s dominance was due to “talent dilution” from the war, but the next season (1945-1946) Richard won a second Cup with Montreal, in a league of NHL regulars. Reporters chose to focus on Richard’s “dismal” 27 goals. Richard responded the next season, by leading the league, and getting nothing for it.

My favorite story of Maurice Richard is emblematic of what men have to do to survive in a woman’s game.

In the 1951-1952 playoffs, in game seven semi-final against Boston, Richard was checked by Cynthia Borrows, and knocked out when his head hit Barbara Sutherland’s knee. Only out briefly, Richard pleaded to be allowed in the third period through severe dizziness, and with stitches above his eye. Montreal coach Louise Martin sent Richard out; in spite of knowing he was concussed. With blood on his sweater, Richard scored the winning goal on Boston’s Jill Haggerty, and sent Montreal to the final. Richard was shown a controversial sign of respect by Haggerty, when she kissed both his cheeks in the handshake line. There is a stunning monochromatic photo where Richard is bloody, and Haggerty sports a swollen eye, and it gives me chills.

Richard and Haggerty were two players, whose mutual respect was “controversial”.

What a joke.

Maurice Richard’s name graces the Stanley Cup eight times, but there are many in the NHL who don’t know he exists. Sometimes I feel like the only one who does know.

One of the best in hockey history, forgotten, and dead by 2000.

Maurice had a brother too, Henri, but I can never find anything about him. All I know, he was even better than Maurice. From 1955-1975, he marked over 1000 points, which Maurice never reached. He was the first man to be named to an All-Star team, but was cut last minute. He holds a record of 1256 games for Le Bleu-Blanc-Rouge, and was briefly the first man to Captain an NHL team—for four months. He holds a league-wide record of 11 Stanley Cups.

That’s all I could muster about Henri; I guess the league wanted so badly to conceal Maurice’s achievements that they buried another Richard to compensate.  
The first man to reach the NHL, without the help of nepotism, was Gordie Howe, and I could talk for days about Gordie. He was truly a great man.

1946-1947 was the first season more than one man played in the NHL, a right wing in Detroit. A large bodied, 18 year old from Saskatoon scored in his first game, and showed a bombastic side that Maurice Richard staunchly avoided. Apposing Richard’s understated prowess, Howe had a large presence that disregarded managements’ warning not to outshine the female stars. Howe out-worked, out-thought, and out-played opposition over a forty year career. He tallied 20-plus goals in 22 straight seasons; an NHL record.

Though, as is the trend, Howe sustained a nearly fatal injury, early in his career. During the 1950 playoffs, Howe fractured his skull after an attempted check on Leafs’ Captain Phyllis Kennedy went wrong. I had the honor of hearing this story from the man himself, and Mr. Howe told me that the blow to his head was so bad that he had to undergo surgery to relieve building pressure on his brain. Mr. Howe casually mentioned, he returned the next season to have a career year, and be the first man to win the Sylvie (or any award) by 20 points.

Howe had made himself many enemies in the NHL, but none so much as Maurice Richard. Reporters drew frequent contrasts between, and came up with many reasons to dislike both. Maurice was too reserved; Howe was too relentless. Howe was too physical and would hurt someone; Richard was too jumpy and would hurt someone. Really, it just came down to pitting men against each other, because one was already too much for the NHL. The one similarity between the two was neither would be stopped. Howe became the first NHL player, ever, to put up 90 points, and finished the season with 95 (1952-1953).

In the late 60s, the Red Wings started to slump. Rumors swirled that it was due to Howe (40) aging, but forgot to take the expansion into account. The number of teams in the league doubled to twelve, and the game’s format changed. With scoring chances doubled, Howe blew the league to smithereens once more, breaking 100 points with 103.

Howe left Detroit in 1971, following a frankly disgusting demotion, but his journey was not over.

After taking a year off, to recover from nearly thirty years of professional hockey, Howe joined the extremely progressive World Hockey Association’s Houston Aeros. He played with his own sons, Marty and Mark, and led his team to consecutive championships. In 1977, he and his sons joined the New England Whalers.  
In the 1974 WHA Summit Series, Howe played with Future NHLer, Wayne Gretzky, and swept the USSR’s HC Dynamo Moscow (women only).

In 1979, the WHA folded, and merged with the NHL. Many from the plethora of men were displaced over-seas, in minors, and junior, but the merge marked the NHL’s first wave of men. Howe returned, Gretzky made his debut, along with Mark Messier, Jacques Plante, Bobby Hull, Gerry Cheevers, Frank Mahovlich, and many more. The league couldn’t do anything about it now, a sixth of their players were men. 

I had the honor of meeting Gordie Howe, when Detroit was gunning to draft me. Lykke had pushed so hard for me to consider Detroit, because she played there. She went so far as to personally promise their owner I’d come visit when I was in Milwaukee—without first telling me. Reluctantly, but obligated, I went; I was bored out of my mind, because I was set on Nashville. All I can remember is the lifeless taupe walls, but then we just so happened to “encounter” Mr. Howe. I was mesmerized; suddenly exactly where fifteen-year-old me dreamed of being. I knew it was a ploy by Detroit, and maybe if they’d also gotten Datsyuk it would have worked, but it didn’t stop me from listening to Mr. Howe for over two hours. 

I was rapt; story after story. The walls were no longer lifeless, but painted in the red and white that Detroit bled, and printed with the black and white of Mr. Howe’s experiences. I could only be pried away when my agent said I needed to get back to Milwaukee in time for practice. I left Mr. Howe with a handshake, and he let me go with an “I’d be thrilled to see you in red”. I do have to admit, after speaking with Mr. Howe, the red was even more tempting than when Lykke played for them.

Mr. Howe and I were generations apart, he at 82, and I, 18, but the sport brings us all together in our joys, and hardships. 

There were so many more men I could have rambled about. I could have written a book about Bobby Orr. I could have spewed about Wayne Gretzky. That’s why I want to work in the Hall of Fame; I want everyone to know this. There are swaths of our game that history forgot. Big numbers, and Gods, reduced to ruts in the ice. Legendary players, buried to keep hockey female, record holders nearly obliterated from the sport.

Back in junior, on a bed, with my first close friend. It was the first time I understood how fickle the NHL was. Cody was a grown man protecting a high-school sophomore, no one knew the name Henri Richard, Toronto had a strict prohibition on male players that lasts to this day. What had men done to deserve that? They gave up more blood, sweat, and tears than any woman did, because we never had to prove ourselves like they did. We had to prove our skill, and ability, but never our basic right to play. I’d never heard once ‘you could get hurt, go put on figure skates’ but my friend Magnus did, everyday for years. I’d never had to prove I belonged in hockey once, let alone every time I got on the ice.

Even at fifteen, I knew something was very wrong with that, but my priorities shifted as the draft neared. I needed to focus on myself if wanted to make the show, so my philosophizing got put to the side. Once my world was tinted “Predator’s Gold” I meandered back to my junior days of picking through hours of records, and news articles. After I lost Jolan, nothing at all mattered—not my own career, definitely not someone else’s who played decades before me.

There is always something, though.

Everything important happens for a reason, this included my fascination with the history of men in NHL, and Anna forcing me to attend the 2015 draft. I never thought there would be a significance to the all-nighters of bothering Cody with things that were irrelevant at the time; it was all for learning’s sake. The day of the draft proved that there was method to the madness of losing sleep, and stealing our enforcers to compile obsolete facts. The lead up from the last one hundred years of men being rejected got dropped into the team’s lap—my lap. 

There is always something that links it all together.


	4. September 8th, 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nashville, Tennesse.

Nashville’s training camp started on September 8th, and I hadn’t been bought out, so I returned to Tennessee the morning of. It was surprising I was being welcomed back to Nashville, but I couldn’t decide if it was pleasantly, or unfortunately surprising. I wasn’t looking forward to facing Coach Hill, or Ase, or anyone on the team. 

Something told me they might have regretted keeping me around.

The 2014-2015 season had not ended on a favorable note between management and I. The memory of it clawed itself out of the box I’d closed it in when I stepped foot into the Bridgestone Arena. The cloying yellow walls forced it to replay. The memory of it lodged into the walls as much as it was me.

...

“I’m sure you know why you’re here,” Coach Hill stated as I sat in the chair opposite her desk. Her statement wasn’t a prompt; she was simply saying that she knew that I knew I’d become a nuisance. She was right too; I did know. I waited for her to continue.

“I’m running out of ideas on how to deal with you,” she looked at me bluntly. “I’ve bag-skated you, I’ve fined you, I’ve scratched you, had Anna speak to you, and I still had to bring you in here.” She radiated irritation and disappointment, so I didn’t interrupt her.

“Five fighting majors, four unsportswomanlike conducts—more this season than in your whole career—and you also managed to get yourself suspended for three games—remember that? When you sucker-punched Ursula Nedved?”

She knew I remembered, I wasn’t supposed to answer.

“Then you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—explain yourself.”—Wouldn’t. Nedved had been antagonizing me the entire game, and called me a dyke one too many times. I knew that still didn’t justify throwing the first punch.

“We can’t defend you anymore.” Coach Hill got to the point. “I don’t know what got into you, but if it was the Dunai trade, get over it. Speaking of trades…” Coach Hill trailed off, watching me closely for a reaction I wouldn’t have.

After Jolan was traded, Coach was the last person I wanted to confide in. She’d played for the Quebec Nordique and Philadelphia Flyers in the 80s, the bruising and bullying era was deeply rooted in her, and that wasn’t conducive to expressing soft emotions. I never wanted her to know we were together, let alone engaged; she never knew. As far a management knew, I’d lost a friend, and was throwing a three-year tantrum.

“If we could get two girls with half your talent, why shouldn’t we trade you?” she asked in a tone that told me I was supposed to answer now. I knew she wasn’t going to like my answer, but it wasn’t in me to tell her what she wanted to hear.

“I would have no objections,” I responded dryly.

As she stared at me silently, Coach Hill was carefully blank, despite her neck and face filling with red, like a thermometer. She glared at me while jerking to a stand. 

Against the red of her face, and grey of her hair, her green eyes glowed like a demon come to rain despair upon me. Striding with purpose, she slammed her office door open, a crack resonating down the hall; the metal nob colliding with the concrete wall. With her knuckles white over clenched fists; I expected a furious roar, so much that her grim whisper scared me even more. 

“Leave.”

Shrugging away the anxiety, I erased any residual emotion from my face, stood, and exited the room. Greeting me were two shocked teammates who had been minding the own business, and were unfortunate enough to see that. There was no slam behind me, but Coach Hill sent me off by gritting out, “Don’t plan on being invited beck for camp.”

...

That was after locker cleanout, but here I was once more; called back to Bridgestone for my sixth season. I briefly wished that Coach Hill would bring me into her office again, even slowed while passing the door, because I didn’t want to face the team. The players who witnessed me get kicked out, Maxine Teema and Mia St. Claire, were still with us, and who knew how many of our teammates they told. I knew I was no one’s favorite, but I’d still been humiliated.

To avoid being seen for as vulnerable as I was, I slipped my sunglasses on, along with my headphones. I left the music off, cleared my expression, and strode up to the door as carelessly as possible. In Nashville sign language, this had meant do-not-approach for two seasons, but preseason is a different environment. Those from Milwaukee, Cincinnati, or junior don’t speak our language yet.

The chaotic chatter didn’t miss a step when I waltzed in, but I didn’t miss Anna deadpanning ‘and the queen has arrived’. I pretended as if I hadn’t heard.

“And she’s not even late,” Lacy chuckled back.

Our veterans had gathered to one side of the dressing room, giving space to our prospects and career AHLers on the other side. I recognized almost every face, except some players who the Admirals had picked up between our last camp and now. Some shaggy hair, youthful features, and bright eyes. Three of the older man, Pekka, Cody, and another, sat on the bench with the younglings cross-legged on the floor. The kids had their backs to me, but faced the men like an audience.

I didn’t need to hear anything, because Cody pointing squarely at me, then the floor was what I was waiting for. Without forethought, I dropped my bag in an empty stall, and detoured to join the boys.

The widening of the third man’s eyes must have tipped the rookies off, because six more pairs of round eyes turned over their shoulders at me. Filled with awe and shock, the third man made as if to sit on the floor, and get out of my way, only stopping when Cody bumped elbows with him. 

“She can sit on the floor,” he stated. And I did, willingly, but feigning boredom. That acquiescence must have stunned everyone, because the conversation stuttered as I sat crisscrossed between two baby-faces. I didn’t dare look, but I could feel eyes from every direction, and the energy changed like shifting wind. It was as if the cloud I carried around was lifted. My negativity was swept away by the action of obeying Cody, connecting with him, and everyone’s light could shine again. It was tentative, everyone unsure if it was really me or a changeling, but the cloud—I—didn’t block the sun anymore. No one tiptoed around me when I was being agreeable.

“Dude,” the third man whispered to Cody, hand shielding his mouth, because I still had headphones on, “That’s Ingrid Ahlgren.” He said as if I were a superior Cody was somehow ignorantly disrespecting. I was nowhere near that; that was so far off, it was almost funny, and I showed my amusement by propping my chin on my fist, and letting a tiny smirk free.

Looking at me like the flawed human I was, Cody said, “I’ve known her since she was fifteen. She can take it.” My smirk swayed dangerously close to a smile, and it was so hard to contain, because I’d missed Cody so sorely.

We’d stayed in touch after Saginaw, and remained fans of each other. When I found out through Twitter that Cody had been signed, I was so alleviated and light that I held my dad’s hand, so I wouldn’t float away. The sky in Sweden was vast that day, and unlike most days I wanted to sky on earth. I would get to play with—see—Cody again, after seven years. We hadn’t been teammates long, but he was my first close friend, so to see him again put a silver lining in my grey and yellow rut.

We picked up right where we left off, with no awkwardness, or treating me as anything above mortal. Cody never let me get away with putting up walls, because as a teenager, I did the same for him.

“So, are you going to great the commoners, or what?” he asked sarcastically, “Your majesty?”

I’d known he was going to call me out, but even that unwound some of my tension. I was relieved, more than anything, to have someone who hadn’t given up on me. I faked reluctance, and gave a little huff while putting my headphones around my neck, plucking my shades off, and hooking them in my collar. Anyone watching probably thought I was humoring Cody; only he and I needed to know it was the exact opposite.

Expression as it always was, intent and sharp, Cody studied me closely. Cody could dissect someone with his eyes alone, and I wondered what he saw in me, how deep he could dig, and I didn’t resist it. He’d been my enforcer, assigned to protect me, and years later, I still trusted him to do that.

No one else needed to know that though.

After cutting me open, Cody casually began, “Ingrid, this is Adam Payerl.” He nodded toward the third man. “Milwaukee picked him up over the off-season.”

I leaned forward, hand extended. Adam switched around—as if I couldn’t mean him—before anxiously laughing, and taking my hand.

I offered a clipped nod in place of saying anything.

“Found her manners back in Sweden,” Pekka interjected amiably, and sarcastically—underlain with cutting sincerity. 

The glare and flat lip I directed at Pekka was tepid on the surface, but uncomfortably warm underneath.

“Obviously you know Pekka,” Cody continued. “You’ve met Colton, Kevin, and Viktor.“ I had, at last season’s training camp. I nodded to Colton Sissons, the Admirals’ captain. Nodded to Kevin Fiala, a very promising Swiss prospect, but he seemed too shy to make eye contact. Viktor Arvidsson, who I was acquainted with from U16 in Sweden, said it was nice to see me again. I did something close to smile, tight-lipped in acknowledgement.

“That’s Juuse.” Cody gestured to a youthful boy. Juuse Saros, a goalie I’d heard great things about. He was smaller, and the league loved it (can’t have them too big, God forbid fans can tell they’re men).

“Vladislav Kamenev—“ to a boy more interested in his phone, “—He doesn’t speak English.”

“And—“ Cody stopped to chuckle. Aborting the gesture he’d been about to make. “—Lacy told me you know Andre pretty well.”

The name blanched me of any color, and I reluctantly turned to my side, where Cody had pointed. I’d been too busy trying to seem disinterested to really look at anyone, but then it was the draft all over again.

Damn Lacy and Cody for playing together in Ottawa; I didn’t want anyone to know about my slip up.

I took in more than just scared eyes this time. Bellamy still looked startled, but he was hiding it better this time. Along with the eyes was wild, outgrown hair; free, natural, and wavy. A summer tan, and sharp cheekbones. Lanky limbs, and newly forming strength. He was robed, head-to-toe in yellow, not yet assigned to Milwaukee or Nashville, and making the days in limbo count.

Once more, all I could do was stare; void of words the one time I needed them. Something about that boy negated my cool and carefully constructed indifference, like Kryptonite.

To avoid seeming affected, I offered my hand; scraping the barrel for a response. It was the first physical contact we’d ever had. The first time I got to feel beneath the rookie nerves.

Finding him with the Milwaukee boys told me he knew what the sport expected—get out of the girls’ way—but the energy dormant him was so strong it rushed over me. Static between our palms and up my wrist gave me a flash of the fire this boy was going to overflow with. Maybe not this season, maybe not the next, but he would make it. The faint ember, kindling behind Andre’s dark eyes, just waiting to burst, would burn too brightly for the AHL.

Work passed the green-stage, chip away at the internalized misandry; he could blow all of us away.

All of that through skin, and inky eyes. There was no doubt within me that camp would not be the last I saw of Andre. A connection that immediate, and a realization so eye opening couldn’t possibly be for nothing.

Somehow, I was more at ease than I remembered being in weeks. Maybe, because I’d felt someone who was as fearful as I was, but I broke the touch before it got weird, but not before wondering what he’d felt.

There was a sprinkle of Goosebumps on his tanned arms. He’d experienced me exactly as I was.

...

The first solace I got was being on the ice again. I knew Bridgestone’s ice better than any, and feeling out the familiar ruts and divots was soothing. Not unlike running my palms along the walls of my childhood home, or my dad’s prickly cheeks, the ice felt right. I dug my edges in fondly, before slowing up at the outskirts of the team, clustered around Coach Hill and Ase.

“Welcome back ladies,” Coach Hill announced, “First time back as a team. It’s good to see your faces again.” There wasn’t much feeling in her voice, but Coach Hill meant it. She was a staunchly traditional hockey player, so emoting wasn’t her strong suit.

Ase, on the other hand, was too close to us to be anything but genuine.

“Good morning all.” She swayed her stick absently, while sing-songing. “I’ve missed you all since may, and I’m thrilled to get to know our newbies.” She scanned the crowd, beaming. “I have a great feeling about this season, and have some even better news to share…” she trailed off for a moment, smile going eager. “Over the summer, Ryan and I finally had success with a surrogate.”

Cheers, congratulations, and stick-taps echoed over the ice. Anna and Alexis rushed forward to envelop tiny Ase between their big bodies. I skirted around the crowd until I could glove Ase’s shoulder, because this was an undeniably joyous occasion for her.

Like a lot of women in the league, Ase wanted to be a mother one day, but also common was terminating unplanned pregnancies early in careers.

As a cautionary tale, Ase told me, when she was twenty (six years before I was drafted), she missed her period for two months, because she was so absorbed in her rookie season. She had no choice but to notice when she started throwing up. Sadly, after testing, her suspicion was confirmed, and even worse: she wasn’t sure who the father was.

Unmarried, with a blooming NHL career, management advised Ase that an abortion would be the most convenient option for all evolved. At the time, choosing between single motherhood, and the NHL seemed easy; Ase terminated the pregnancy. Later on, at twenty-five, Ase married her husband, Ryan, and quickly got pregnant, only to miscarry two month in. Two years later, I was around for the second time.

Even now, I hate thinking about that day.

While she wasn’t playing, Ase still came to Nashville to support us. She was three months pregnant in December, and no one was worried. I went to Ase’s house for lunch, and she beamed that she hadn’t thrown up all day, despite a little stomach cramping, and light bleeding. We planned on doing some shopping, and baby-prep, but Ase suddenly running off to the bathroom in the middle of my sentence cut me off.

I assumed pregnancy bladder, and scrolled through Twitter while waiting. However, Ase wailing my name instantly dredged up every single worry that everyone had, but no one voiced. In a blink, and I was slamming the bathroom door open. It happened faster then any goal I’d ever seen.

The stress of the situation forced me to hone in on the red. I remember best that Ase’s panties around her ankles were stained dark red, and her fingers were glistening red. There was so much of it, and I knew exactly what was happening. 

Ase was crying, loudly, but I couldn’t hear it over my heartbeat. I didn’t hear a single thing over the rapid thumps in my ears.

I remember watching myself from some place deeper inside my head. I watched my hands yank Ase’s underwear off, and toss them in the bathtub, so she couldn’t see them. She didn’t deserve to see that; she’d never done anything to deserve that. There was no way I’d allow her to see how bad it was.

I dialed the emergency number, because I didn’t know what else to do. 

The entire time we waited, I crushed Ase to my chest, too tight, so she wouldn’t see any of the blood. She cried, and screamed, but I only know because I could feel it rattle in my bones. I don’t have a single memory of the sounds. My chest and neck were sore the next day, because I’d held her so tightly. For my own protection, and hers. The shirt I was wearing ended up in the trash, because Ase had balled her fists up in it, and her blood was all over it.

There was one thing I knew, after Ase was taken to the hospital, I couldn’t drive myself home. I called Anna on autopilot. All I could bare was to say ‘Ase lost the baby’, but Anna didn’t know exactly how horrifying it was until she picked me up. She found me sitting on the trunk of my car—bloody and in shock—and almost screamed herself. I barely managed to explain, and I remember nothing else after that point.

It was the first time I’d experienced pure panic and hysteria, and I promptly never talked about it again. I wanted nothing more then to forget that ever happened.  
After that tragedy, Ase lost her passion for playing. She isolated herself and Ryan in Sweden for a while. Thankfully, she signed a coaching contract at the beginning of last season.

Knowing that a woman who went through so much to be a mom would finally get to be one was wonderful for her.

“We’re two months along, and everything is going perfectly!” She announced, and I retreated to the back of the group again.

“Alright, everyone,” Coach Hill smiled, unable to deny the joy. “Get a hug in, then we get started.”

The team smothered our assistant Coach in affection for a few moments more, and then settled in for our orders. 

Disregarding her clipboard in favor of the lifted mood, Coach Hill said, “For the first twenty minutes, how about I let you pick your lines, and have some fun?” She looked us over, “I’ll let you girls get comfortable again.” She waved us on with the clipboard.

“Rookies against vets!” Alexis exclaimed, draping herself over Pekka who laughed, and tried clumsily to pick her up.

“At least give me and Jus a chance,” Samuela Vesa objected with her heavy Finnish accent. Neither Pekka nor Alexis seemed to hear over their wrestling. Switching to Finnish, Saros turned to Vesa.

“They need to get a room,” he observed dryly than shook his head bitterly. Which one he was jealous of, I’d never know, but at the same time, I agreed with him.

While Vesa doubled over in laughter, I turned away to find Cody. He and the Milwaukee boys stuck close, like glue, held together by getting the honor of the yellow jerseys. I tapped Cody’s skate with my stick on the approach, and swung around, shoulder to shoulder. Looking up through my visor, into Cody’s sharp eyes, he nudged me playfully.

“Bellamy,” Cody turned to Andre, “Hop on Ingrid and I’s left wing.” To which he happily nodded, disturbing the brown hair spilling out below his helmet.

Lacy joined us on defense, and after recruiting Emma Rinne we joined the scrimmages.

Despite being emotionally inept, I knew good hockey when I saw it. That being said, Bellamy showed the beginning of greatness. I was silently impressed. The environment on the team, and faster pace of the NHL would be good to him.

Speaking as the one who clocked in as the fastest skater on the team, Bellamy could just about keep up with me, and that was only the first thing to strike me. When our lines headed up against Laura Brown, Kaya Knollen, Anastasia Salnikova, Max Teema, and Hilda Olhouser, given the opening, he could skate circles around them. While not as fast as me, I hadn’t seen footwork so confident since watching tape of Ase’s rookie season. I wanted to see what he could do when he’d gotten comfortable, and fought down a twinge of hope that he’d stay long enough.

No matter how good a skater, if you didn’t have a sure-shot, you wouldn’t get one passed Pekka. I will acknowledge how close Bellamy came though.

After a drop to Vesa’s left, I chipped it back to Emma. She muscled her way to the blueline, through Teema and Olhouser, and passed right, landing squarely on Bellamy’s tape. Cody and I hauled it to the neutral zone, shaking off pesky teammates.

I looked up just in time to receive the cross-ice pass from Bellamy, and jut my elbow out, both to protect the puck, and block Olhouser. Bellamy was streaking into the opposition zone, and I held the puck as long as I could, weaving and hustling over their blueline.

Rushing the crease, but trailed by Teema, I sauced the puck as neatly as possible. Bellamy, looking back over his shoulder, stretched to intercept the long pass. By then there was only six feet of space left to work with, but Bellamy got Pekka out of position by going to his backhand. He wristed it to the right high slot, but Pekka caught it to the shoulder, and trapped it down on the ice.

With the play whistled dead, our line converged on Bellamy as if he’d scored. Even I was impressed, but I kept it on the inside. Cody roughly palmed Bellamy’s helmet, and laughed something in his ear that I couldn’t make out. Upon plowing to a stop, I patted Bellamy’s helmet once while he basked in the praise. Feeling like I was lost in the noise, I began wheeling around, but stalled when Bellamy turned to me.

“Nice pass,” he beamed, white teeth in a blinding grin, mouth guard poking out. He held his knuckles out, and because I couldn’t deny him the praise, I bumped his fist with mine.

Bellamy had been a hair away from scoring on Pekka. In his first shift. On NHL ice. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t impressed. I preferred to keep a distance between my teammates and I, but denying Bellamy credit, and dismissing his excitement would have made me a bitch.

I jerked my chin toward the bench, wordlessly telling him to follow us for the line-change. I hopped the half-boards, as did my line, while Kamenev’s got on the ice. I took my seat, Cody to my left, and Bellamy to my right.

Still vibrating with endorphins against my shoulder, Bellamy bounced his heels eagerly. The sound of his teeth chattering was audible from where I was sitting—I hadn’t heard that on the ice. 

Out of concern, I asked “Are you alright?” Looking at him out of the corner of my eye. It would likely put a damper on camp if one of our rookies had a seizure, and I didn’t want a repeat of having to call an ambulance for Ase.

Quickly redirecting his sparkling grin at me again: “Huh?”

“Are you alright?” I repeated, waving a hand at him, and his ceaseless jittering. 

After looking down at himself, as if not noticing his motion, Bellamy chuckled. “Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.” His grin widened even more, miraculously portraying no nerves.

“I’m just so excited,” he breathed out happily, and made no effort to settle. Somehow, I wasn’t bothered. To have gotten irritated at his excitement would had been obtuse, and his sincerity was refreshing.

I remembered being like that. Seeing someone with such childlike wonder, and untainted joy for playing almost made me miss being like that.

Kamenev’s line switching out for ours didn’t allow me much time to think about it; there was a lot of hockey to be played in Nashville.

...

After the first practice ended, we all returned to the dressing room, tired, soaked, and satisfied. I couldn’t speak for anyone else, but I felt right. 

I’d spent all summer traveling around Europe with my dad—far away from hockey. After the season ended, I’d rather take one of Lacy’s slapshots to the stomach than see the color yellow. Instead of playing in the World Championships, I took a break, and gave my dad something he always wanted. We took trains and busses through Finland, Russia, Latvia, and Poland. We stayed a few days then continued through the Czech Republic, Austria, and Switzerland. We spent almost a week in Switzerland; my dad marveled at the architecture of the churches, and I marveled in his happiness. My father was the typical laconic Finn, but he forewent his quietude in the towering cathedrals. 

Church hopping through Europe with my dad was a rare bright spot in my blue period. Being able to give him something he’d long dreamed of gave all the green that fell on my head as an NHL player a fulfilling purpose.

We were reluctant on our return, and stayed a few days over-schedule in Prague. That was good for two reasons. Most of all, I got to spend more time with my dad. But it also delayed my return to the States. I’d been guilt-tripped into going to a rap show (on the night I would have returned) with Alexis, who then invited Jolan and some of the other Capitals. It was a relief to say I was ‘stuck’ in Prague.

Summer had been wonderful, but I was ready for the ice again by the end. I’d been a hockey player for too long to stay away for long; training camp was convenient in that way. The break was long enough that I didn’t physically burn out, but short enough that I kept my meaning in life.

Getting off the ice, my legs felt dead, and I reveled in it. That was a pain I was used to, an exhaustion so deep it sunk right through muscles and settled in bones. That was the feeling of hockey being back—it was a pain I needed.

What I didn’t need was the media. I think, if media weren’t so persistent, I would have been an even better player, or an even worse person. The threat of doing an interview with every word recorded, and a camera in my face made me thoroughly consider everything I did. I might tone down the flash in a goal, make it look harder, or not put up my middle finger in the direction of a blinding-white camera flash. If it meant less time being interrogated by a person paid to twist my words—I would do it.

There was, however, one thing far more intimidating then regurgitating answers while bare-chested and red-faced.

That was Anna, standing cross-armed behind the flock of reporters surrounding my stall. One shower sandal on her foot, the other in her hand, poised to beat me with it if I refused to talk. She narrowed her blue eyes, and kissed her teeth as a journalist asked, “What is Nashville, as a team, looking to improve on before the start of this season?”

I glanced at Anna, and she brandished the flip-flop like a wooden spoon; silently daring me to clam-up. Because I didn’t want the world to see me get beaten with a sandal, I answered.

“Like everyone else, we’re trying to get back into each other’s rhythm,” I began while keeping my tone as flat as possible. “We’ve got a deep roster this season, and an impressive set of prospects, so I see a good season ahead. As long as management makes wise decisions—which is out of my hands—we’ll have the green light on a great run.”

I couldn’t resist the little jab at management, and I could see Anna fighting with herself. Being snide could warrant the sandal, but me giving an eloquent, multi-worded answer was more than she could ask for. I took the risk knowing Anna would have to settle for being glad I spoke at all. Still, being torn had her face turning pink, and it clashed with the yellow and blue team-shirt.

“What are you, personally, working on?” the same reporter asked, her camera operator holding the monstrous device just over her shoulder.

Sparing one glance to Anna and her sandal, I cleared my throat, and prodded mindlessly at my sore, bare chest. “Staying out of the box.” I almost chuckled at the futility of that. “I need to be setting a good example for our rookies, and I should be on our power-play, not handing them to the other team. Plus, with Rinne in Milwaukee, it would probably please the ladies in the offices if I were on the until I dropped.”

After that answer, Anna lowered her sandal, stunned. All us players thought it was moronic to send Pekka down—Anna couldn’t disagree no matter how spiteful I was being—but no one wanted to talk about what atrocities led up to it.

Coach Hill had blatantly disrespected Alexis (a goalie by pedigree) when she’d said Pekka was better than her in some ways. Hill (in so many words) said Vesa deserved a spot, Pekka was getting old, Alexis was too good not to start, and to not over-estimate Pekka just because she was sleeping with him. It was unnecessarily cruel, and dashed any respect I had left for Coach Hill; not only did she degrade Alexis, but she made Pekka out to disposable.

Me making light of the situation while it was still raw was harsh of me, but I was too angry to care. Somebody needed to talk about it.

Not only had Hill and Gaudreau put an elite in the AHL, but they’d also broken up another years-long relationship.

With that bitter taste in my mouth, I didn’t feel like answering any more questions; so when the reporter asked “How do you feel about Nashville’s first pick?” I filled my answer with salt.

“He’s the best I’ve ever seen in my time playing… And his name is Andre Bellamy. By the way.”

 

“TSN: Ahlgren Jabs Preds’ Management in Passive-Aggressive Interview [video]”


	5. September 8th, 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that day, Nashville.

Media didn’t spend too much more time picking us apart (this would be nothing compared to our home opener) and quietly left, so we could get back into our normal clothes. The grey sweatshorts I wore constantly were always most comfortable after a hard skate; the same went for my black crop tank. I shoved my sports bra in my pocket, and threw my wet hair into a bun after pulling my socks and sandals on. The team followed the same routine, having done so for years, and practiced it to a science.

We had all worked changing down to a matter of seconds, but I was far from the first to be done. A handful had left in pairs and groups to get a late lunch, but I hung back in my stall, and checked my phone.

Cody was taking his time, chatting with Adam, and trying to include Andre. They were mostly dressed, but I didn’t feel like interrupting them. My teammates’ Instas were suddenly active again, and my feed was flooded with posts. Lacy, Laura B, and Maxine grinning, location tagged as Bridgestone Arena, captioned with a Canadian flag emoji. Shirley had posted a photo of her overflowing gear bag, and her thumbs-up in the foreground; uncaptioned. A new picture of Pekka on Alexis’ account, taken in the parking lot; sun bright and orange, Pekka’s hair shining and yellow. The caption ‘Candids of my model’.

By the time I looked up from mindlessly scrolling, Cody was halfway out the door. Hustling after him may have been off-type, but I jumped to it before I had the chance to analyze my behavior. With the excuse of wanting to catch-up on my side—and knowing, logically, no one but me was overthinking what I was doing—I trotted to reach Cody.

“Let me buy you lunch.” I pressed my shoulder to his comfortably. His worn-in white t-shirt soft and human-warm against my skin. For a short moment, I impulsively rubbed my cheek against Cody’s shoulder, like I had an itch. 

We’d matched pace, so it was easy for Cody to hip-check me before countering.

“Only if you tell me what’s going on with you.” It was a question I’d gotten before, but Cody was the first person who didn’t turn it into an accusation. Coach Hill hated players stepping out of line, Gaudreau didn’t like players who weren’t marketable, Anna got mad because she cared too much. At least I could understand Anna; she wanted the best for us, but I never felt comfortable telling her what really happened. I could tell Cody, it wouldn’t damage my reputation to do so, but I didn’t know about Jolan. I couldn’t possibly tell someone she didn’t know when we agreed to forget it happened. I’d have to ask her, and that wasn’t happening.

“I guess I’m not fifteen anymore.” I tried for light, but hit forced dead on the nose. I couldn’t bring myself to shrug, or look at Cody when I said it, either.

“Bull,” Cody retorted. “I know I wasn’t around, but you seem miserable now.” Cody paused, and gave me a chance to object, but I didn’t.

“Don’t be mad at her, but Lacy told me when the thirteen-fourteen season started, she thought you were some sort of imposter, and that it’s like you’ve gotten more and more unhappy since. If that’s true, I can’t just let it go.” I could see him looking at me in my peripheral, but I couldn’t look back.

There was so much pressure building around my eyes, and a heavy stone at the back of my throat—the awful precursors to tears. I focused straight ahead down the obnoxiously yellow hall, the murals and paintings of past and present players blending together.

I’d gotten ‘what’s wrong’ before, years ago, and only when my attitude started affecting the team. That made sense to me, team is always before the individual, but no matter how many times I told myself that, it didn’t feel less disingenuous.

After seven years, it was like we were transported back to Saginaw, walking through the halls of the Dow Event Center, and Cody was again the person who cared the right way. He didn’t care about ‘production’, ‘morale’, or anything else but his teammate and friend. I hated that I was in a position where I couldn’t tell him, because I wanted it out of me so badly.

I brought my hands up to my face, and pressed my palms over my eyes.

“I can’t,” I sighed, voice breaking. “I—“ It was the most defeated I’d let myself sound, and not being able to control my emotions made me want to cry even more. My body felt like lead, but Cody pulled me toward him like I weighed nothing.

With nothing left in my tank, I allowed Cody to move me, resigned. He hadn’t been around when I formed my ‘type’, so he didn’t hold me to the same standard the team did. Even though I wasn’t refusing the contact, it was good there was no one around to see us; no one on the team needed to see me in such a soft state. I still didn’t know what Mia and Max said after Hill threw me out of her office; anyone seeing me being held by a male teammate would turn into rumors neither of us needed.

Cody’s arm over my back confined me to his chest; his chin propped on top of my head. How strongly he squeezed me told me to deal with it, because he didn’t care who saw us.

Being so close to someone was abnormal, but I couldn’t find my usual reaction of discomfort. Under and before the emotional shut-off, I was quite the tactile person. I’d been starving myself of that necessity to touch to keep in line with my aloof façade. I didn’t know how much I needed the affection, until Cody dumped it on me.

My hands came down from my face, and around Cody, responding instinctively, and fulfilling my need for closeness. Having dug my hole this deep, I figured it couldn’t hurt much more to press my cheek to Cody’s shirt again. 

When Cody pulled back, I didn’t want the hug to end, but I followed. Cody held me by the shoulders, and looked at me apologetically.

“Just…” he paused for a moment, gazing up at my mural plastered on the wall, frozen in time. “Tell me when you can, alright?” he asked, after taking a moment to think.

I nodded, now able to reflect on my actions, and how vulnerable I let myself be. Being that soft—even to Cody—was not acceptable, but something I could let go of, because no one saw (and no one would believe Cody).

Then, with a glint of teasing in his eyes, he said, “And wear a bra for once,” to break the tension.

I sighed something dangerously close to a chuckle, and took a benign swing at Cody’s hip.

“You going to get lunch with me or not?” I demanded softly, as if to restart the conversation from the beginning, and deny my cracking emotionless veneer.

“You should take Andre,” Cody suggested. “From my understanding you’d be fulfilling a life-long dream, and he’s pretty jazzed that you stood up for him.”

I drew my brows together. “Stood up for him?” I’d honestly forgotten what I’d said during the interview; I’d done so many in my career that they all became throw-aways. Droning my way through another set of questions was so routine that I didn’t remember.

“Yeah, when the reporter called him our first pick, you were really… assertive about calling him by his name.” Cody relayed to me then paused when I continued to simply look at him. I hadn’t thought it was a huge deal.

“Don’t tell me you’d do that for anyone on the team,” Cody chuckled.

I would have though; it was just that Andre was the person I’d need to do that for. Media wouldn’t do that to any established female player, and the other boys hadn’t made history for Nashville. Even Nashville’s other picks, some of who attended camp, were called by their names. Andre not being called by his name felt like something very purposeful.

Refusing to call men by their names belittled them even further. Their contributions were already shrugged off, they were already more likely to receive severe injuries (because no one cared and/or they were typecast as meatheads). I wasn’t going to let an innocent player get buried by a talking head who knew nothing about hockey.

I shrugged in response to Cody, because I didn’t know how to fit all of that in a sentence.

“Well,” Cody looked over my shoulder, back to the dressing room. “You’ve got him swooning. It’s the least you could do.” He knuckled the side of my head, and then offered a brief wave to whoever was behind me. I had a good idea of who it was.

While Cody continued down the hall, I glanced back to see Andre and the two younger boys leaving as well.

It really was the least I could have done. He was team anyway, so I figured I’d have to at some point.

I waited until the kids caught up, then with my heart feeling scrubbed raw, and a little lighter after connecting with Cody, I matched their strides. They were stumbling through conversation, none speaking a common language, but enjoying each other no less. Mostly, Andre and Kevin Fiala giggled at everything the other said, and Vlad Kamenev looked between them somewhat enviously.

Not wanting to interrupt their fun, I thought to wait until they addressed me. They would have easily trampled over me with their chattering; I was too laconic and bland, though they seemed to be having such a good talk, I felt a little like Kamenev.

Andre had immediately looked at me, and smiled even wider, but was quickly drawn back to Fiala’s enthusiasm. All I had to do was let them be kids.

“I come to Nashville, and is nothing like Sweden, Switzerland.” Fiala clumsily soldiered on. “Is nothing like home, but I like here, now.” Kevin threw his arm over Andre’s shoulders, and smiled contently. “Like you.” A far cry from the silence I’d got when he’d been introduced to me.

When it seemed like Kevin had said what he wanted to say, Andre looked back to me. He made no move to shrug away the contact, even pulled Kevin closer by his waist.

“Yeah?” he turned his lips upward happily. How happy he was as a person stumped me; I remember being a happy rookie, but Andre’s joy was overwhelming. It was like lightening, so bright it lit up everything around it. The yellow hall that I’d learned to tune out was so vibrant in his presence that it was brought to life.

“Would you like to get lunch with me?” I asked plainly. Andre’s face fell a little, not out of disappointment, but seeming indecision.

“If you already have plans I won’t be upset.” I shrugged. If he and Kevin were making quick friends it wouldn’t be any loss to me.

Remaining distant was the safe option, anyway. Someone who made me nervous—made me see in color again—may be comforting, but only for as long as he was around. When Andre was in Milwaukee, or somewhere in the NHL that valued him more, he’d take his Technicolor and leave me unsaturated once more. I really hoped he’d say no—for the both of us. 

I didn’t deserve his admiration. The only thing I could do was drag him down. I was so starved; I’d leech his colors from him. Bleed him dry.

“I’d love to.” A naïve smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I took some artistic liberty with certain NHL rules, but they will be explained throughout the story.
> 
> Please comment, and tell me your feelings! I'd love to have feedback on this, because I love writing it!
> 
> (I will do my best to post every other weekend.)


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